Anything
by Mitchie Love
Summary: Oneshot. Stiles laughed (or maybe just coughed) before saying, "I need a favor, dude." "Anything." Anything for him.


It smells bitter and cold. It oozes out of Stiles's leg as he clutches it. There's a still silence in the air as Scott and Stiles stare at each other. Scott has hurt Stiles before. They've wrestled and hit tables and tickled until one of them ended up kneeing the other. Stiles has usually been on the receiving end for being such a cheater, but that's just who he was when they were kids. Of course it was questionable whether some of it still resided in him; the side that cloned passkeys and broke into school in the middle of the night.

But Scott has never kicked or punched Stiles on purpose before. At least not maliciously. He's his best friend, his buddy, his brother. Brother. No matter what anyone says they would always be one, and whoever tries to separate them will have to walk over his dead body.

He would never hurt Stiles on purpose.

* * *

They sat in Scott's room. Isaac had stolen away into his own room, understanding that there was no space for him right now. Stiles rested his head against the wall, Scott sitting directly in front of him.

"I'm going to die," he said.

His voice sends shivers along Scott's spine.

"I don't want to do this to him," he said again after a moment.

"We talked about this," Scott said.

Stiles nodded, beginning to hit his head against the wall. The thumping sounds made Scott picture his tumbling towards the ground. "When I was little, I was afraid I would get it, too, you know."

"You're going to be okay, Stiles. I can help you."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"It'll work."

Stiles stayed quiet.

* * *

Scott and Stiles had gone back to sitting at their old lunch table, away from Lydia and Allison and Isaac. It was all the same. They laughed and talked and teased each other and remembered those times when they were kids. But there was something off in the air, a certain sadness. Stiles had been pulling away and shutting out. His face was pale all the time, and dark circles formed under his eyes.

Coach tried to call him out in class, but Stiles always said, "I don't know." And Scott could again sense the chill in his words.

Coach Finstock tried cracking jokes, but they all sounded uncomfortable. It gained him glares from just about everyone in the class, as they were too morbid to be laughed at. The news spread around, and had obviously reached half the school. It was not okay to make fun of the boy with a terminal illness.

Stiles didn't take any pity from anyone; he walked as if nothing happened. He was still trying to keep himself awake, to keep himself able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy. Scott often found him counting his fingers or whispering, "I was wearing this shirt this morning, right?" or "Has your jaw always faced that way? Or was it the other?" The last was an attempt to lighten the mood.

* * *

Stiles used to fantasize about Lydia Martin. Not sexually, because for reason poor little virgin Stiles could never imagine it without feeling like he was disrespecting her. He often went on tangents about her strawberry blonde hair and tiny stature, and how smart and great she was. Now he didn't care much for Lydia anymore. At least not in the way he used to. Scott watched Stiles rip the tree she had drawn to pieces, letting its shreds dance into the trashcan like ashes.

"We should burn these," he said. "All the trash in this room."

"Your dad will kill you," Scott said.

"I'm already dying, who cares?"

* * *

Stiles always knew the answer. Now Scott saw him struggling to read. He kept pricking his skin with his pencil, to keep himself alert. He didn't make straight A's anymore. More often than not Scott would peek at Stiles's paper and see a generous grade of a C, when half the test was blank. Stiles raised his hand and said one question over fifty was not a C, and the teacher never cut him slack again.

* * *

Scott caught Stiles looking at a picture of his mom. He traced the outlines on her face as if he wanted to materialize her. He often cried. There was a twinge of happiness in it, like he was going to see an old friend after a long time. But then Stiles would see Scott watching him, and start crying with real sadness. Scott would kneel next to him and hug him, and whisper that it was all going to be okay. He never talked about the bite again, even though he couldn't pretend that it didn't gnaw at the end of his throat and twisted his stomach into knots. The idea of losing his best friend made him feel like he was going to have an asthma attack and die right along with him. Maybe it'd be better that way. He couldn't imagine life without him.

* * *

"Scott!" Stiles screamed.

Scott woke up with a start, not even being able to process his best friend standing in front of him. But after a while, Stiles's lanky figure began to form in front of him. "Don't do that!"

"I heard on the police radio—"

Before he could finish his sentence, Scott grabbed his coat and said, "Let's go."

The night ended with them getting caught before they could come out of the house. Melissa had been standing close to the doorway with her arms crossed, her eyebrows raised.

But she let Stiles stay the night after he called his father.

* * *

Stiles came to Scott one day in tears, blubbering that he couldn't die; there was no way he could leave his dad alone. There was no way he could cause anyone else more pain. Scott grabbed him and sat him down and made him count each of his fingers twice. Then he showed him an old picture of him and pointed out which way his jaw was facing. Stiles laughed (or maybe just coughed) before saying, "I need a favor, dude."

"Anything."

Anything for him.

* * *

Stiles has been passed out for about half an hour. Scott has been frantically checking to make sure he isn't bleeding black. He still smells alive, and his skin is still warm. He finally looks peaceful. Scott concentrates on listening to his heartbeat. It's steady. He isn't sleep walking or sleep talking or anything of that sort. He's fine. He's good. He's going to live. Right? His best friend is going to live.

Stiles stirs.

He's okay.

* * *

Scott vaguely remembers when he saw Stiles in a suit for the first time. It was the day after Stiles's mom's funeral and he had been crying his eyes out and hiding away from his dad. He never said why. For three days, Stiles lived in Scott's room until Melissa found him.

"Stiles, I love having you, but you need to go home. And I told Scott he can't have food in his room. Come down to the living room next time."

She knew all along, they found out years later.

* * *

The day Scott's dad left, Stiles snuck into his room in the middle of the night and played a whole game of Monopoly while cheating in Scott's favor. Even when he called him out on it, Stiles never admitted it.

That's how Scott learned they would do anything for each other.

* * *

Seeing Stiles go into the MRI machine made Scott's heart clench. It was only moments before when he first offered the bite to him, and the moment that Stiles only nodded but didn't seem to consider it. It scared him to think it was a nod of only appreciation for the offer, when Scott would really tear the world down if he could just to keep Stiles alive. But he could never go against his will.

* * *

Stiles stirs again. Scott kneels forward on his hands to watch him like when they were kids on those rare days he woke up first.

Scott wants to reach over and open one of his eyelids to check his eyes. However, he knows from experience he should never wake Stiles up. Besides, if this works, then Stiles will not be the same gangly kid he used to be.

"Stiles?" Scott whispered gently. "Stiles."

Stiles opens his eyes, revealing a yellow color. The wound on his leg is no longer bleeding.

Scott could cry right now.


End file.
